


Quid Pro Quo

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-02
Updated: 2011-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus now understands what it takes in life to get what he wants—a small sacrifice for infamy and power, a give and take for success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://secretsalex.livejournal.com/profile)[**secretsalex**](http://secretsalex.livejournal.com/) for the beta!  
>  *I'm assuming Sluggie was born c1935 for the purposes of the ADW I provided. Since we don't know his age in canon fact, it works.

  


  
**Quid Pro Quo**   


Eleven year old Severus Snape makes no friends at Hogwarts. He only has one friend to begin, only has one friend thereafter and even then she doesn't stick around forever. He makes acquaintances, little boys with small-minded ideals and perverted whispers, the types of boys who would pummel him if he wasn't one of their own, a Slytherin. Severus sees how his acquaintances treat the Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, the Hufflepuffs—if he weren't one of them, he'd be their enemy too, booted into the muck and made a fool of.

This attitude of self-protection becomes his mantra. If they do not know he doesn't belong, they will not torment him.

Nobody really likes Severus, and he knows this—because he says all the wrong things and looks the wrong way and doesn't have a rich family or a surname that speaks for itself. They only tolerate him. He is Severus the Small and Meek, the Skinny-Legged and Slump-Shouldered, the Greasy-Haired and Hook-Nosed. They keep him around because he is talented, because they can use him, because he is a Slytherin, but Severus is not fooled and knows that if he needs to talk to someone, he has to crowd Lily Evans into the shadowy alcoves between Gryffindor Tower and the Slytherin dungeons. It is never enough, to tell her he wishes she was sorted into Slytherin too, to see her face shining in the dark, to see her perspective, her eyes.

But while Severus considers Lily Evans a friend, he overhears the boys in his dormitory whispering in hushed quiet about her blood status. _She's impure_ , they say. _Mudblood. Tainted._ At first, Severus tries to ignore them—he can full well decide what Lily is on his own, without hearing their insults—but it isn't long before he truly understands what they mean: Lily isn't a witch, not fully, not in her blood. Her blood is mixed with non-magical blood. She is filthy. Contaminated.

Just like him.

He is the same—filthy, tainted, sludge-blooded and weak, a Mudblood. Severus tells no one, writes _I am Prince_ in the lines of his borrowed textbooks until the words bleed through the pages and blotch the pictures of half-transfigured things. He wants so badly to be Pureblood, to erase his father from existence, to be just like the other Slytherins who are proud of their heritage. Severus does not want to be like Lily, but there is some part of him that is happy they have something else in common, something they can whisper and hold close between them. To remedy this dysfunction, he snipes at her in the hallways, spits _Mudblood_ at her when his housemates catch them together. His newfound mates laugh, pat him on the shoulder, titter at Lily behind her back, and Severus feels vindicated but so very alone. When he apologises, words bleeding from his heart, she does not understand what it does to him, what it makes him, how low he is and how his heart sinks in his chest and rips itself to pieces to say these things.

He knows he can never remedy these two sides, so distinct, so severed, so ugly.

Severus is too young to fully understand the insults he spits, the wrongs he commits, and all too soon they are deeds that cannot be undone, and Lily says she would rather be friends with a toad, for they have better manners, and Severus is surrounded by people who say they are his mates, but really they are ghosts to him and he is more alone than ever, without hope of rectifying anything.

By fourth year, Potions has become his only respite. In matters of science, Severus can be sure of things, and these concepts he grasps easily—there is cause and reaction, ingredients measure up to a whole sum that brews into a solution, and cleverness accounts for everything, easily definable variants that Severus twists to suit his pleasures and pursuits. He can understand potions, his nimble fingers quilling shortcuts in the margins, and he knows the rules do not bind him. There, in the dark classroom beneath Hogwarts in the dungeons, he is somebody's favourite, doted upon and fawned over like a beautiful thing that will blossom from the dirt if cultivated properly. There, he makes a true friend, someone who listens, who understands, who doesn't gloss over him or step on him to get something. There, he is with Professor Slughorn, as an equal, as a mate.

It begins like this, simply enough, and becomes something more complicated with time.

____________________________________________

It is on Severus' fourteenth birthday that things change. He hides himself in Slughorn's stores, organising the thousands of potion ingredients that line the walls and fill bins that teeter above his head. They are in sore need of alphabetising, as Slughorn himself gets confused just searching for simple ingredients. This is not a new task; Severus does it for Slughorn as often as he can.

Severus is in the middle of categorising the L's—lionfish spines before lovage roots—when he notices something funny. A potion he organised last week in the J section has been moved far above. Severus knows that the jar now labeled _fluxweed_ is actually and unmistakably _jobberknoll feathers_ and has been moved and shuffled around. Severus corrects the label with a quick spell and rearranges the ingredient back to its proper place, making a mental note to remind Professor Slughorn to be mindful of the new system of organisation…and then notices a second error, a third, a fourth, until Severus begins to lose count, until it isn't just coincidence that things have become so muddled.

Severus isn't sure how long it takes him to correct Slughorn's sloppy mistakes, but his stomach is growling for an hour before he realises he's missed dinner in the Great Hall—and he hasn't even finished yet. He is standing amidst a pile of wrongly categorised potion jars with a red face when Slughorn interrupts his calculating thoughts.

"Everything all right, my boy?" The pressure of Slughorn's slap on his back nearly sends Severus reeling into the shelves. As always, Slughorn doesn't know his strength. "You look feverish."

It would be in the best interest of Severus' sanity to tell Slughorn about his odd mistakes, but for some reason, Severus shakes his head and murmurs a quiet, "I'm fine," instead.

Slughorn's dark eyes roam over the jars that litter the floor where Severus has stacked them for categorising. Severus sees the mechanics of Slughorn's brain working to understand, and when their eyes meet, Severus gets the distinct impression that Slughorn is waiting for him to confess that he knows. Severus doesn't know why he can't speak, why he doesn't want to tell Slughorn he's a sloppy Potions Master who doesn't seem to have the capacity to understand organisation. Instead, Severus just looks at him and waits.

"You missed dinner," Slughorn says, a tight smile on his lips. "I brought you a little something, in honour of your birthday, and then I daresay it's time I sent you back to your dormitory before your housemates begin to wonder what you're doing with an old man like me at such an hour."

Severus feels his chest growing tight, warmth spreading from somewhere low in his gut up to his throat, blotching his pale skin with unmistakable discomfort. And yet…he doesn't know what that statement really means. What would his housemates wonder? Why shouldn't he be alone with an old man like Slughorn? Slughorn, who has been nothing but kind to Severus, who always goes out of his way to ensure Severus is cared for, who treats him fairly, who converses with him for hours after classes, who always seems to have a hand outstretched in friendship, who will set Severus on paths unimaginable but great.

And then Slughorn's hefty hand settles at the small of Severus' back, guiding him with ample pressure from the Potions cupboard and into the adjacent classroom. The feeling in Severus' stomach sinks lower, intensifies. "Come, Severus. Let's fill that skinny belly with a bit of something, before you go hungry."

Seated across from Slughorn at his desk, Severus is presented shortly thereafter with a slice of rich, dark chocolate cake, topped with a heaping portion of whipped cream and a single, decadent cherry. Severus' mouth begins to water, and before he can help himself, he is tearing into the dessert, forkful after forkful shoveled in his mouth in an unbecoming manner. He knows better. He is not some uneducated Mudblood, who doesn't know how to eat, and yet he is ravenous for reasons he cannot comprehend, and tears into his cake like a convict starved for days. When only the cherry remains, Severus plucks it and hesitates, his gaze on Slughorn, who he realises now has been gaping at him the entire time.

There is a single bead of sweat at Slughorn's left temple, heavy and beginning to drizzle down his cheek, clinging to the hair of his mustache. Severus' eyes follow it. Suddenly, he feels sick, knows he shouldn't have eaten so fast, and his head spins. He wants to leave, to curl up in his comfortable bed and sleep off the strange feeling that has settled low in his stomach. Something about Slughorn's eager, hungry expression stops him.

"Go on," Slughorn says, nodding towards the last bite and the red cherry that oozes from where Severus' fingernail has accidentally pierced it. He can see Slughorn's eyes following the trail of juices that slither down his sallow fingers, ribboning along his wrist. "Finish up."

"I think I'm full, sir," Severus says, dropping the cherry in favour of nudging the plate towards him. "You can have it, if you like."

"Didn't your mother teach you to properly clean your plate?" Slughorn's voice is a bit lower, a bit more serious, a bit…darker.

Their eyes meet, and the gaze that stares back at him is probing and fierce, starved. Severus doesn't like the way talking about his mother and what she has or has not taught him makes him feel. Slughorn doesn't understand what his mother has sacrificed for him, how much she gives up just to let him attend Hogwarts, what it's like at his small, cramped little house with a father who stands in wait and hovers in doorways like a dark shadow, digging his dirty talons into every aspect of their quiet affection. Slughorn is pressing all the wrong buttons, and Severus stands up with his fists clenched to tell him so.

Instead of arguing the point, Severus leans over the broad desk, his Slytherin tie dragging over some unmarked parchment and his sticky, chocolatey plate, and shovels the cherry between his lips. He plucks the stem from his teeth and flicks it onto the empty plate.

"There," he says. "Goodnight, Professor."

As he leaves, he hears Slughorn's low moan behind his back and chills race his spine. He doesn't understand why the noise is both alarming and arousing, doesn't understand why he wants to both run back to Slytherin and hesitate in the arch of the Potions classroom, and doesn't understand why he both wants to force that noise from Slughorn to his heart's content and never hear it again ever as long as he lives.

The warring, conflicting feelings don't let up when he reaches his dormitory. Severus tosses and turns, tangles himself in sweaty sheets, thinking of Slughorn's small mouth surrounded by his giant mustache, the way his eyes roam so freely over Severus all the time, and how did he miss it until now? There is something uncomfortable about being the centre of someone's attention like that, but there is also something heady and exciting in it. What does Slughorn want with him, he wonders? He has never felt so important, so cherished, such a perfect trophy and prize. He falls into a troubled sleep and wakes with bags under his eyes.

In the hallway between classes, Sirius Black trips him and he nearly breaks his nose against the stone floor. He retaliates with a curse that sews the smile right off Black's face. As he watches blood drizzle down Black's handsome mouth, the colour drains from Black's face, and Potter and Lupin rush him to the Infirmary. Peter Pettigew trails behind with tears in his beady little eyes, glancing back to Severus as he rushes off in fear. Severus laughs. He feels better already, doesn't even notice Lily Evans with her horrified, wide-eyed alarm or the whispers of his fellow Slytherins about his sudden prowess for spells. He is like a lion, he thinks, having been laying in wait and watching through the tall grasses for a chance to make his move—with strength and cunning and a sharp bite of determination, he pounces and snaps his jaws and sinks his teeth.

He thinks for a moment of Slughorn and knows somehow that because of him, this feeling of euphoria has come to be.

Severus licks the taste of authority off his lips with smug delight.

____________________________________________

"Do you like him?" Regulus Black asks one evening two days before the Christmas holiday in Severus' fifth year, while the two of them are re-organising Slughorn's stores. Regulus is a new addition to this process; this is his third time in the stores with Severus. "Professor Slughorn, I mean?"

Regulus is nothing like his older brother, a fact that suits Severus just fine. He thinks there are worse things than befriending Regulus Black, and Slughorn himself let it slip that he thought the two of them should grow close, that they had much to teach one another and plenty to share. Regulus is wealthy, well-regarded, popular, and as pure of blood as they come—Severus knows right away he will offer anything to stand in Regulus' sphere of influence. Slughorn, as usual, is spot on in his matchmaking endeavors, nudging them closer and closer until it is inevitable that they become, at very least, acquaintances. Putting the two of them together only means their friendship would allow Slughorn to reap even greater benefits from them in the long run, but that give and take is fine with Severus, who now understands what it takes in life to get what he wants—a small sacrifice for infamy and power, a give and take for success.

"He's all right," Severus says with an indifferent shrug, watching the pain and care Regulus takes organising the shelves. He can't help the sneer that slides across his sallow features. "But he can be quite…odd sometimes."

Regulus' dark gray eyes seek Severus' through the shadows of the potions cupboard. The look that passes between them tells Severus everything he needs to know about Regulus, both his naiveté and intelligence glittering in his gaze. "How do you mean?"

Severus tips his head and surveys Regulus for another moment, wondering all the ways in which Regulus is smarter and more foolish than him, then brushes his greasy hair back away from his face. "You haven't noticed yet, have you?"

"Noticed what?" The little tremor of _something_ in Regulus' voice greatly pleases Severus.

"That Slughorn likes it when his students stay after."

Regulus snorts, the sound aloof and unconvinced. He turns back to his work, nimble fingers making short work of Moose Roots and Milkweeds. "Don't all the professors? I can't tell you how many times I've stayed after Professor McGonagall's class because she needed table legs mended and thought me most capable of the task."

"But I doubt Professor McGonagall purposely breaks her tables so you have something to mend."

For a moment, Regulus looks confused, and then he glances up to the potions stores and frowns. "Do you mean—"

"What I mean to say," Severus begins, gaze flicking over Regulus as he leans in beside him to snatch the jar of miscategorised lacewing flies out of his hand. "Is that if you don't plan on returning here every day after classes like me, you ought to make up some excuse or another to weasel out of it now." Severus' fingers brush Regulus' as he pries the jar from him. "Unless you honestly plan on using Slughorn's help... and I can't imagine why you'd need to, given your name and status." But then, no matter how high one worked up the chart, there was always someone above to be knocked below, as Severus knew all too well.

To Severus' annoyance, Regulus fixes him with a sneer. "Maybe I do plan on returning every day."

Severus stiffens. Is he _serious_? It burns Severus up inside. Regulus Black doesn't _need_ Slughorn, not like Severus does, but there he is just as greedy to get ahead by any means necessary. There truly are times that Severus loathes Slytherins more than any other house, as the level of utter selfishness enrages him. Not that he doesn't share that particularly annoying quality himself—Severus would have thrown anybody under a bus if it meant he could get ahead by it.

But Regulus will never know what it is like to claw his way up through the dirt. He is a prince to his family, a bright student, rich, has the necessary means for success and accomplishment within his reach. Severus can never compete. If Slughorn has to choose just one student, surely it will be the good-looking, charming, wealthy one with little to stand in his way.

Severus' face burns a little pink, some of the sallow colour washing away in his frustration. Stuffing the jar into the corner bin where it is supposed to go, he turns his back on Regulus and clenches his jaw. He doesn't need another enemy, and Slughorn obviously wants them to be mates, but fuck it all he doesn't need some lower-level Black teasing and taunting and taking all of the opportunities that present themselves to Severus, who needs them most.

"Do you always steal opportunities right out from under other peoples' noses?" Severus bites out, interrupting the carefree whistle Regulus' has taken to sounding. "Quite a bit the greedy little bint, just like your brother, after all, aren't you?"

Severus glances to Regulus behind a curtain of greasy hair as he grabs another jar to order it. When Regulus swings his fist, Severus sees it coming and does not shield himself. He knows what he can get if he lets it happen.

____________________________________________

"Regulus punched you?" Slughorn asks.

Slughorn's pudgy fingers hold Severus' face still by his chin. Severus likes the comfort in Slughorn's touch, but he knows the danger there, the same warning signs as always when the two of them are alone—the lingering way Slughorn's fingers glide in a familiar way along his skin, the slack in Slughorn's lips, the slow drag of his gaze. It took Severus too long to figure these things out, to puzzle it together, but now he knows the moment has come to test his theory. Regulus Black does not deserve Slughorn; he is too pretty, too smart, too wealthy, too everything with nothing to gain. Severus needs any step-up he can get, and he will do what he must to achieve the ends he so desperately craves.

"He did," Severus says. Feigning a wince as Slughorn twists his face to have a better look, Severus is pleased with the look on Slughorn's face—pity. As if on cue, Severus reaches up to hold Slughorn's hand. "It's…all right." His black gaze draws up to meet Slughorn's, noting in a pleased way that Slughorn isn't looking at his face but at the place where their hands meet. "I'm sure it's broken, though. He's strong."

"Ah, yes," Slughorn murmurs. "On the Quidditch team, of course…a smart boy, very strong…"

Severus burns up inside. He swallows his bitter resentment, tries not to let his anger show, but how can he ignore the way Slughorn praises that little slag?

"I suppose," Severus says, coolly, and jerks his face free. "Very pretty too, some might say." He looks up in time to catch Slughorn's surprise. Then, Severus shrugs. "I wouldn't know, of course. It's simply clear how you feel about him, as he's well more your pet than I am."

Slughorn's eyes are wide and his heavy stomach rises and falls quickly with every breath. Severus can almost see the wheels turning like a clock as Slughorn attempts to weasel out of an answer.

"I see the way you look at him," Severus goes on, not giving Slughorn the chance. "I'm not stupid, Professor."

"No, I daresay you aren't, Severus." Slughorn reaches into his right breast pocket—he is dressed down in vest, shirt, and trousers tonight—and plucks forth a handkerchief to dab the sweat at his brow. "You may be the most intelligent young Slytherin I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. There is not a potion I can show you that you will not master in time, nor a spell, and I am sure you have noticed the way I look at _you_ , not Mr. Black."

Severus is not expecting that, nor does he expect to feel something at the praise now that he knows it's just a game in the end, a means to a trap. Doesn't Slughorn say this to every young man who gives him the chance? And yet the pleasure floods through him. Severus wants more, to be called beautiful and strong and talented until he gets sick of feeling so good inside. He wants Slughorn's praise just as badly as he wants his influence.

Slughorn sets his hand atop Severus' knee and begins to rub. The heat of Slughorn's touch spreads through Severus, quick as the jolt of electricity he got at five when he picked up his mother's wand and waved it at the electrical sockets. Severus has been waiting for Slughorn to make the first move, and now he isn't sure what to do, because he's never been touched and he can't help but wish he didn't like it so much. It should be easy to disassociate.

Control becomes an impossibility as Slughorn's fingers reach his inner thigh, because Severus begins to pant. He is surprisingly hard beneath his trousers, and as he slumps back against the armchair and greedily spreads his legs. This is the kind of game he wants to play, the kind he can win, because he is damn sure Regulus won't allow himself this, won't subject himself to a grown man's touch just to advance himself in the world. Severus reminds himself again that Regulus doesn't need to—Severus does.

"I have been waiting for this," Slughorn breathes, and soon his mustache is tickling Severus' cheek as he peppers kisses along Severus' jaw and throat. "Do you know how long, my sweet boy?"

Severus makes an incoherent noise that traps itself in his throat. Slughorn's hefty palm has reached the line of his prick, his mouth is at Severus' ear, and Severus is trembling for more.

"Just as long as I have," Severus croaks. It is humiliating to some degree but also empowering. He is walking a razor thin line between whoring himself and gaining the upper hand. It is his choice and it isn't; he is free and he is trapped; the pleasure is excruciating and the pain is exciting.

Slughorn groans and then Severus is engulfed by him. Slughorn's mouth captures his; Severus' first kiss. Slughorn's fingers palm his prick; Severus' first handjob. Slughorn's body rests against his own; Severus' first taste of intimacy. He is addicted instantly, falling and falling and falling into this thing he has created and that is overwhelming and exciting.

The first time, Slughorn moves slowly. He tugs Severus' trousers down only after he has called him _good lad_ and _my sweet pet_ and told him _open your mouth, boy, let me put my tongue in_ , only after Severus is so hard that he knows he is going to burst, only after his body is quaking beneath every brush of Slughorn's hands as they roam down his sides and under his jumper.

It is over so quickly he should be embarrassed, his come spurting thickly down Slughorn's tight throat, both of Severus' hands clenched in his old Potion Master's hair. Instead of disgust, Slughorn seems to revel in the speed of things, how quickly he has unwound Severus. He swallows everything, then pulls Severus to his knees on the floor and forces his hand around Slughorn's engorged prick.

It is heavy in Severus' fist, fat and already sticky from the precome oozing from the slit at the head. Severus' mouth feels very dry. He can't breathe while he strokes it, while Slughorn praises him until he feels dizzy, and he wants to lean down and try to fit as much of it between his lips as he can, but his nerves get the best of him and so he just jerks and squeezes and does all the things he knows he would like done to himself. Slughorn's cock swells beneath his touch, Slughorn's eyes roll back, Slughorn's small mouth falls open in a wide 'O' shape. Severus loves the way his stomach rises and falls in a rapid up and down, how he pants, how red his face is, how it is Severus doing these things to him and not Regulus or anybody else but Severus Snape who has full control and authority and could do anything to Slughorn and nobody would even know. Severus groans as Slughorn comes and his hand is full of the release, warm and thick and sticky between his fingers.

Afterwards, they wash their hands with cleaning spells and Slughorn asks Severus not to tell. Severus has both expected this and has not, sneers a little even though he feels ill.

"If I don't," Severus says evenly. "What will you do in return, Professor?"

Slughorn's face falls. Severus isn't entirely pleased. He can't seem to shake the feelings churning with doubt in his stomach, but his path will be set. Slughorn will connect him to the right people, place him at the right parties, give him the means necessary to do whatever he wants. In return, Severus will give this little part of himself, that he might have given anyway, and Slughorn will be none the wiser.

Years later, Severus will want to beg forgiveness. Now, though, there is no turning back.


End file.
